Five Times John Wasn't Gay and One Time
by andromeda's song
Summary: Title pretty much says it all. A look into the antics that prompt John to dig out his long-suffering defense of his heterosexuality. We've got dancing, massage oil, undercover operations, and liberal applications of the phrase "I'm not gay!" T only for my paranoia.
1. The Ambassador's Ball

**Thought I'd try my hand at something funny. :) **

* * *

1: The Ambassador's Ball

John's starched tuxedo collar was beginning to itch fiercely and he fought desperately not to attend to it whilst standing amongst some of the most powerful men and women in the entire world. Instead, he gritted his teeth into what he hoped was a pleasant smile and grabbed another flute of champagne from the passing waiter. He sipped at the pale, bubbly liquid while his eyes roamed the crowd for his curly-headed companion.

John spotted Sherlock in the middle of the dance floor, waltzing very gracefully with a handsome woman that John recognised as the wife of the Swedish ambassador. They were making small talk (probably in Swedish, John thought) and Sherlock was giving her a sweet smile that John knew wasn't totally faked. John smiled and watched the pair for a few more minutes before he turned his attentions back to the crowds of people around the room.

Their target would be in disguise tonight, although John had worked with Sherlock long enough to know that even the most brilliant disguises didn't hide everything if you knew how to look. Their man was left-handed, roughly John's height, slim build, and deaf in his right ear. Some things could be hidden, like eye-colour or hair-colour, so John didn't bother looking for those characteristics. He decided to try looking for men who seemed to be favouring their left ears in the conversations. You couldn't fake not being deaf.

"Do try not to stare at anyone too long," a rumbly baritone voice muttered in John's ear, which made him jump. Sherlock appeared at his side with a glass of champagne and a smirk on his face. "Even the least observant people will notice you staring too long at them," he chided.

John scoffed lightly. "And how is the ambassador's wife?" he asked. "I didn't know you spoke Swedish."

Sherlock gave John a scandalised look. "John, I am fluent in approximately twelve languages and literate in at least twelve more. How could I _not_ know Swedish?" He sipped at his champagne. "And to answer your first question, Ingrid is doing splendidly. Did I mention she's been a friend of my family's for many years? She is quite the charming woman, if I do say so myself."

John rolled his eyes and placed his empty champagne glass on a passing tray. "Well, while you were off with Ingrid being perfectly charismatic in fluent Swedish, I thought I'd start looking for men that seem to be favouring their left ears, since Benson is deaf in his right ear."

Sherlock nodded approvingly, instantly back into detective mode. "Very good, John."

Another waltz started up and John felt Sherlock tug on my arm. "Let's see if we can't quicken our search, hmm?" Before John could ask what he meant, Sherlock was tugging on his hand and dragging him out to the dance floor.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?" John asked as his partner spun him around and placed a hand around his waist.

Sherlock frowned and took John's left hand. "Waltzing, John. I did teach you how to waltz in preparation for this event, so stop gibbering and just follow my lead."

And with that, the pair was waltzing around the floor with a myriad of other couples. John tried to kickstart his brain a few times as he tried to concentrate on everything that was happening to him. First, there was Sherlock's closeness in his personal space. Sherlock was oftentimes within his personal space as he read over his shoulder or whatever, but this was significantly different, seeing as how Sherlock had a snug grasp on his waist and a firm catch on his hand. Then, there were the stares of some of the more…conservative couples on the floor and in the wings. One woman glared at him outright as they sashayed their way past her. Finally, John was trying frantically to remember the damn steps to the dance in which he was currently being led.

"It's hard to do this backwards," John mumbled.

"You should try it in a dress and heels," Sherlock countered, not taking his eyes off the assembled crowds.

"What?" John asked. "You've worn a dress before? And heels?" They passed the same glaring woman at that exact time and John swore that she almost fainted as she overheard him say that.

Sherlock frowned down at him. "Honestly John, how long have you known me? That was not the most outrageous disguise I've ever worn." He sniffed as he whisked John around a turn. "Besides, there's actually something quite liberating about dressing in drag, if I do say so myself."

John chuckled but noticed that once again, a few of their dance partners had overheard their conversation and were giving them some much scandalised looks. That just made John chuckle even more.

He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand gently so he turned his attention back to his dance partner. "Over my right shoulder," Sherlock muttered. "Dark haired man, goatee, glasses, grey suit, charcoal tie, pot belly."

John eyed the man as Sherlock spun him around. He was quietly sipping at his drink and talking to another man with a broad red sash on his military uniform. "What about him? That can't be Benson, he's nearly as tall as you are." John said.

"That is Benson nonetheless," Sherlock said. The waltz ended and the two men stopped. Sherlock leaned over on the premise of giving John a chaste peck on the cheek, but he whispered in his ear instead. "He's got shoe lifts, a pillow under his shirt, and he keeps tilting his head to the left."

"Ah," John said. "What should we do?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the older woman from the dance floor who had apparently taken great offence to their dancing. She tottered right up to them and began to curse at them in a low undertone.

"You two should have kept that little display to yourself," she hissed. "This is a prestigious event, not Sodom and Gomorrah!"

"Madam?" Sherlock questioned with a finely arched eyebrow.

"Perhaps next time you should keep your little…idiosyncrasies out of the public eye. Your kind is a vicious plague upon the earth." The woman actually made the sign of the cross over her chest while glaring at them both.

"Madam," John said, his voice heavy with tired patience, "it was simply a waltz. And if you really care, we're not actually…together like you seem to think we are." He tried smiling at the prejudiced woman but she wasn't having any of it. She harrumphed and tottered off towards her table.

John stared after her with a frown on his face. When he looked back at Sherlock, the man was trying very, very hard not to grin but he was failing miserably.

"I'm not gay," John stated.

Sherlock laughed. "I know, John. Now will you contain your homosexual tendencies towards me and help me catch an international criminal?"

John tried to be angry, but the tone of Sherlock's voice was teasing and so he just shook his head with a small smile and said, "After you, darling."


	2. Sandalwood

**You guys... I don't know where this and the next two chapters came from. I think I've finally gone 'round the bend. Please let me know whether they work for you. :) **

**As always, thanks for your wonderful support...your follows and favourites and your lovely, hilarious reviews. You keep me going. Seriously. :)**

* * *

2: Sandalwood

After Sherlock groaned out loud for the fourth time in five minutes, John abandoned his paper and his tea on the kitchen table and stalked into the living room to find out what the hell was wrong with him. The detective was sprawled out on the couch in his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. His head touching the floor and his legs were stretched out over the back of the couch, his feet resting against the wall. John stopped and stared at the damn near acrobatic feat for a minute or so before walking over to stand by Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock, what is wrong with you?" John demanded gently, nudging his flatmates curls lightly with his shin.

Sherlock popped his eyes open and blinked up at John a few times before answering. "It hurts, John."

John made a tisking noise as he stooped over and grasped Sherlock gently under the arms and helped him sit upright. "I told you that you shouldn't have tried to lift that statue all by yourself." During the case they'd just wrapped up, they'd been chasing a killer through a warehouse where they made stone statues and birdbaths and things of that sort. A display of concrete angel statues had toppled over, blocking their path. Sherlock had attempted to move one without help and had ended up cricking his back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't have tried, but you were too busy running around like a crazy person telling me I was a lunatic instead of helping me move the statue. If you'd have just helped me, I wouldn't be in this predicament."

"Oh come off it, this is not my fault. I think you're just mad because you've hurt your back like an old man," John teased.

Sherlock scowled at him. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, John."

"Are you insinuating that I'm old and/or decrepit?"

"Was I being too subtle?"

John shook his head in exasperation. "You should give up the life of a detective and become a comedian." He stood from the couch and began to make his way back to the kitchen.

"Nonsense, John. I am far too blunt to be a proper comedian. Although bluntness is a trait that seems to be finding its way into modern comedy, which says something about the social transfiguration—'''

"It was sarcasm, Sherlock!" John called as he entered the kitchen. He'd just settled back down at the table when his impossible friend called again.

"Jooooooohhhhhnnnnnn!"

"What do you want?" John yelled from his seat.

"Fix it, John. Fix me." There it was…the same petulant voice from earlier, but this time it was tinged with a bit of genuine pain that ignited John's doctor-sense. He sighed heavily and tramped back into the living room.

"What do you want me to do about it, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line as he thought. "Didn't you do some training in reflexology or chiropractic work in med school?"

John nodded. "Yeah, we all did a rotation or two in-''' Sherlock's implication smacked him across the face. "Sherlock, I'm not giving you a massage."

Sherlock fairly whined. "But why not? It's partially your fault I need one in the first place!"

"If you want a massage, I'll call a clinic and get you an appointment," John said.

Sherlock scoffed. "John, I barely like the people I know to touch me. How exactly do you think I'd feel about having a stranger put their hands on me?"

"Sherlock…"

"Please, John…"

The look on Sherlock's face was designed to maximize John's pity for him: that, John was sure of. Sherlock's lower lip stuck out ever so slightly and he widened his eyes a little so that he looked the part perfectly. It shouldn't have worked on John, but he found himself rolling his eyes and saying,

"Fine, you big baby." Sherlock smirked in glee and John sighed. John stood up from the couch and motioned to the floor. "Why don't you grab a blanket and lie down, I'll go grab some lotion or something."

John walked back to his room to rummage around for some lotion or massage oil. He found an unopened bottle of sandalwood oil (a gift from Harry, who had been taking meditation classes and insisted that John balance his chi, whatever that was…) and decided it was a good choice. Perhaps the scent of the sandalwood would even get the great brain to slow down and relax a little bit. John snorted and shook his head, still not believing what he was about to do.

When he went back into the living room, Sherlock was shirtless and lying on his stomach, the fluffy duvet from his bed underneath him. John sighed and went over to the prone detective, settling on his knees next to him. He rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and breathed on his hands to warm them up. He smoothed one hand down the length of Sherlock's spine, taking a smug satisfaction from the shivers and gooseflesh that the motion raised.

"Ready, Sherlock?" John asked. The detective grunted into the blanket and twitched a few of his fingers. As John poured some of the oil into his palm, relishing the earthy scent of the sandalwood, his shoulder twinged and John immediately began to see an issue with the stretching that he'd have to do to reach Sherlock's other side. He supposed he could just move to the other side when he was done, but it wouldn't be quite as effective…

"Umm…Sherlock?" John asked. "Is it okay if… uh… is it okay for me to sit on your hips while I do this? My shoulder will give out otherwise."

Sherlock raised his head and craned it backwards, an unusual look of concern on his sleepy face. "Are you sure you should be doing this at all, then?" he asked warily.

"Um, it's fine, really… I don't mind if it'll help you. I am a doctor after all," John reasoned. "But it'll be easier on my shoulder if I centre myself. Is that okay?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it." And with that, he settled his face back into the cover and wriggled down.

John exhaled a big breath and then swung his leg over Sherlock's narrow hips before he could change his mind. He settled himself so that his weight was evenly distributed and not crushing his flatmate. He nudged said flatmate with a knee.

"You sure this is okay? I'm not crushing you?"

"You're fine, John," Sherlock mumbled. "Just get on with it."

John soon lost himself in the network of knotted muscles that congregated around Sherlock's shoulder blades and in the hollowed dip of his lower back. He kneaded the pale flesh and paid attention to the chorus of deep exhales, grunts, and moans coming from the man underneath him, trying to pinpoint where it hurt the most. When he hit one knot near his lumbar vertebrae, Sherlock flinched but arched his lower back into John's touch. John gulped at the sensation. _This is no way makes you gay at all. You're a doctor…a highly trained medical man…just providing some clinical relief for a friend… whom you are currently sitting on top of. Nope, you're definitely not gay_.

"Ow," the detective mumbled, which brought John back into focus. He backed off a little but kept working at the muscle.

"Sorry," John said. "Your lower back is a mess, Sherlock."

"My my…"

John's head snapped up as a new voice echoed in the flat and the impending figure Mycroft Holmes came to rest just inside the doorway. John felt his blush begin somewhere around his navel and creep all the way up to the top of his head.

"M-mycroft…" he stuttered. "What a pleasant surprise."

Mycroft smirked and made his way over to the sofa, sitting down in the cushions and crossing his right ankle to his left knee.

"Pleasant surprise indeed," the elegant man stated, fixing John with an amused glance.

John blushed an even darker shade of crimson. Why was he still sitting on top of Sherlock? He wiped his hands on his jeans and swallowed.

"I was just…. Sherlock, he… we weren't… I'm not…"

"Oh for god's sake John," Sherlock muttered from underneath him. "Mycroft, what do you want?"

"Does there seem to be a problem with your back, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a simpering voice.

Sherlock exhaled deeply and pushed himself up to his elbows. He glared back at John and said, "If you think of moving, I will punch you." John raised an eyebrow but stayed where he was. Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft.

"No problem, Mycroft. I hurt my back on a case and John is providing me with the care I require, as any doctor would."

Mycroft nodded slowly, a small smirk painting his face. "Sure, sure…" he said. "I just didn't expect Doctor Watson to get so… intimate with his care."

John wasn't sure the blood vessels under his skin could tolerate any more blood flow as another blush painted his skin at Mycroft's remark. "I'm not doing anything! I'm not gay, Mycroft!" he insisted.

Mycroft only chuckled and then surprised both Sherlock and John when he scooted to the edge of the seat and removed his ridiculously expensive suit jacket and then rolled up his sleeves. John's mouth dropped open in near shock as the British government got up and then kneeled beside his younger brother. Sherlock raised his eyebrow at Mycroft, who uttered a phrase in what sounded like Mandarin Chinese. Whatever it was, it made Sherlock nod and plant his face back into the duvet underneath him.

Mycroft gave John a light push. "Budge over, John."

John slid off Sherlock's hips and landed on the floor on his right side. Mycroft kneeled closer to Sherlock's side and expertly folded his hands and laid them along Sherlock's vertebrae. John watched Mycroft strategically move his hands up and down Sherlock's spine, cracking it with efficiency as he went. With each pop, Sherlock grunted and exhaled sharply.

When Mycroft finished cracking Sherlock's back, he sniffed, stood up, and fetched his jacket and his umbrella.

"I've left you a case file, Sherlock," Mycroft said, immediately back to business. "Please let me know what you think. I'll let Doctor Watson get back to his…ministrations." Mycroft smiled a wicked smile at John, who nearly threw the bottle of oil at him as he sauntered out the door.

"I'm just helping, Mycroft!" he called out. "I'm not gay!" From somewhere to his left, John heard the unmistakable sounds of Sherlock's baritone laughter. He swatted the back of the man's head.

"What's so funny?" he grumbled. "I'm not gay."

"I know, John," Sherlock rumbled. "I know. Now if your non-homosexual self doesn't mind… there was some bit of unpleasantness right around L1 that you'd hit just before Mycroft barged in…"


	3. Pose

**Ha... I'm just making this stuff up as I go. I wrestled with this chapter for hours upon hours. If something doesn't sit well with you, drop me a line...cause it all makes sense to me. **

* * *

3: Pose

**Told from John's POV**

"I am not doing this, Sherlock. No way in the seven hells am I doing this."

"Oh come on, John, it's for a case! There's a psychopathic murderer out there!"

"If you suggest this hare-brained scheme one more time, there's going to be a psychopathic murderer in here!"

I crossed my arms over my chest and fixed Sherlock with the stare I'd picked up as an officer in the RAMC. I'd made lieutenants nearly piss in their fatigues with that glare (one of my mates had told me he'd heard I'd once made a corporal cry, but… I didn't necessarily believe that).

Unfortunately, the Captain Watson stare only does so much against the I-am-working-and-you-must-obey-me-before-I-have-a- tantrum stare that belongs to one Sherlock Holmes, consulting git. The bloody man was my best friend in the entire world, but if I was the unstoppable force, he was the immovable object. We were both abysmally stubborn (even if I was the one that ended up giving in most of the time because Sherlock was just….gah…), but there was absolutely no way in hell that I was going to let this fly.

"Come on John," Sherlock said. "You know that look doesn't work on me. It's just this one thing, it's a very small thing…"

"No, Sherlock, it's not. It is not a very small thing. I am not going to…bloody role-play with you and then let you pretend to strangle me!"

Sherlock threw the case file down on his desk. "You've done this for me before, John, why is it such a big deal now? Is it the strangulation that's got you all worked up, because you do understand that I'm not actually going to kill you, right?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose with two fingers and exhaled deeply. "No, it isn't the strangulation that bothers me," I muttered. "It's the part where they were bloody _**having sex**_ beforehand that's tripping me up."

Sherlock stared at me for a long minute. "John," he started in that tone that he reserved for really stupid people, "you do realise I'm not actually asking you to have sex with me. This is just a re-enactment, we won't actually be doing anything."

I slumped into my chair, hiding my face in my hands as I thought. I could hear Sherlock restlessly shuffling his paperwork. I knew Sherlock wouldn't actually hurt me or violate me in any way…it wasn't that. I just wasn't sure that I wanted my very male flatmate and best friend to even be role-playing or re-enacting anything remotely related to sex. I am not gay…not in the least. But even the most heterosexual man on the planet would re-file his paperwork for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was not a… physical being, I suppose, but he was a very passionate and actually a very sexual being. He might not act on it, but that didn't mean that he didn't know how to turn up the sex appeal when he needed to. For god's sake the man looked like a bloody Burberry model with his perfectly tousled hair and tight clothing and chiselled cheekbones. I'd seen him charm his way through women and men alike to achieve his end goal and every single one of them fell for it. When it was directed towards someone else, I was able to laugh it off (even though I admired it wholly). I wasn't so sure I wanted to know what _my_ reaction to the charismatic, passionate Sherlock Holmes would be.

I huffed a breath and looked up at him. "Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?"

He nodded solemnly. "The bruising patterns on the body were…bizarre and I am curious to see what kinds of actions would have caused them. You are the same height and roughly the same build as the victim." He paused and softened his voice. "You know I wouldn't ask unless it was vital to the case, John."

That made me laugh. "Yes you would! Sherlock, that actually sounds like what you'd want to be doing on a lazy Sunday afternoon."

He stared quizzically at me. "Having sex?" he asked.

I blushed crimson and rolled my eyes. "No, you dolt. Performing an experiment to see what kinds of bizarre bruises you could land on innocent corpses. Or innocent flatmates." I stood up and walked over to the desk. I picked up the photo of the victim and studied the pose and the bruises. Even I had to admit that the bruising patterns looked a little odd. The man had been strangulated post-coitus, but the ligature mark around his neck was lighter than it normally would have been. It indicated that less pressure had been used to kill him, which was baffling to say the least. The man was not overly fit, but he should have been able to fight off his attacker (his lover?).

"Alright you tosser," I said. "What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock smiled broadly and proceeded to push me into the middle of the room, looking me up and down and then referencing the sheet in his hands. After cross-referencing a few more times, he put the file down and focused his attention solely on me. He drew himself up to his full height and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Are you ready, John?"

I balked at the look in his eyes. "Maybe we should, um…have a safe word or something, you know. Just in case…"

He nodded. "Good idea. What about… Harriet."

I raised my eyebrow. "Harriet?"

He shrugged. "Isn't it highly unlikely that you will say Harriet during the course of this event?"

I sighed. "Highly unlikely," I agreed. "Alright…do what you have to do."

I was touched when Sherlock pulled me into a light hug and said, "Thank you, John… I really do…appreciate this. I know what I'm asking you to do is very uncomfortable but you can stop any time you want. Please don't… please don't let me hurt you, okay?"

I let go of him and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock. That was nice." I patted his forearms where they rested on my mine and said, "Let's do this before I do change my mind."

Ten minutes later, I found myself on the floor, gasping for air through swollen lips, and with Sherlock Holmes on top of me, pinning my hands to the floor. He'd taken a whole 3.4 seconds after I said 'Let's do this before I change my mind' and then he'd proceeded to snog me into oblivion, crushing my lips against his with fantastic ferocity. I had felt his hands gripping my hips and then my back with bruising strength. I'd panicked in the sea of chemicals that were flooding my brain with pleasure (for although I was not gay, no sir… I'm not going to say it didn't feel damn bloody good). But then I remembered the victim's photo and the strange bruise patterns adorning his hips and back, so I allowed Sherlock to plant his own there.

At some point in time, he'd swung his leg under mine and dropped me to the floor (although he'd cushioned my fall with his hands and legs, whereas the victim had just been dropped). He'd paused for a moment to examine the way my head and shoulders would have contacted the floor. Now, he was sitting on top of me and studying my body with his head cocked to the side. After a few moments, he shifted on top of me so that one of his knees was pressing into my thighs and his other knee was gripping my hip, fully straddled across my own hips. He leaned down and pressed some strong elbows into my chest, shoulders, and neck before sitting upright again. He continued to move back and forth across my body, placing hands and elbows and knees in places that corresponded with the bruising patterns.

I stayed still underneath him and waited while he did his work, trying to calm my breathing and my heartbeat. He was heavier than I expected him to be and the weight felt surprisingly pleasant. When he would lean over me and press his arms and elbows and hands against me, I let him do it and I couldn't supress the flutter of my heartbeat every time he did so. _You're not gay, you're not gay,_ I told myself. _This is just… a perfectly normal reaction to having passionate Sherlock Holmes in your line of sight…and on top of you. Pull yourself together, Watson! _

When he reached over to grab the loose coil of rope from the coffee table, I heard a quiet noise slip out from my throat. He looked down at me with concern in his eyes, asking me if I wanted to stop. I shook my head and swallowed, reigning in my heartbeat once again. He tapped my nose with a gentle forefinger in thanks, and then proceeded to gently wrap the coil around my neck. He experimented with the length and the placement around my skin for a few minutes. Never once did he allow the coil to become too tight around my throat.

When he was finished with the rope, he jotted a few things down in the file and slipped the noose off me and got off my hips as well. I laid there for a few minutes and tried to sort things out, and he joined me on the floor, sitting cross-legged beside me with the file in his lap.

"Are you alright, John?" he murmured, looking over at me from the papers in his lap. "I am sorry if any of that made you unduly uncomfortable."

I shook my head and took a deep breath. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Although I'm pretty sure you usually buy people dinner before you do something like that." I chuckled, trying to show him that I really was okay. He grinned and chuckled as well.

"So…what was all that snogging about?" I asked warily. I'd been expecting the touching and the rope and stuff, but I'd been completely blindsided by the kissing.

"Oh that," he said. "My apologies for not warning you, but the surprise element helped a great deal. I think the killer engaged the victim in several minutes of aggressive kissing…there are some little bruises around his mouth here," he pointed at the photo in front of him.

"Teeth marks," I said, touching my own lips where Sherlock had been nipping at them.

He nodded. "My apologies again for the bruising, but I think the data is most telling. I think I've determined that the extended period of kissing that superseded our victim's death actually quickened his death as well. He was so spent from the heavy snogging, as you put it, that the oxygen saturation in his blood was already lower than normal. Strangulation took significantly less time to kill him because he was already starving for air. In addition, if we add in the fact that he was killed post-coitus, especially if we assume that he achieved orgasm, I believe we can postulate that he was left weakened and hyperventilating in the aftermath, rendering him unable to breathe properly or fight off the attacker."

I frowned. "So… what, are we saying that he was killed due in part because…"

"Because of really good sex, apparently," Sherlock finished. "Enough frenetic kissing to leave him gasping for air and an orgasm that left him boneless and unable to fight back."

"Jesus," I breathed. "So who did it then?"

"The secretary, obviously," he said. "She used to star in pornographic films, so we assume that she was capable of achieving…" he trailed off and pointed to the file, "this," he finished.

"Oh," I said. "Right…that actually makes sense."

He snorted. "Everything I suggest usually makes sense, John."

I hummed in disagreement. "Let's not forget the famous Dartmoor sugar incident of 2011," I teased. "Putting potentially hallucinogenic sugar in my coffee…that would not have counted as a sensible suggestion."

He grumbled. "Aren't you ever going to let that go? It wasn't actually in the sugar anyway."

I chuckled. "Not while I can still get a rise out of you. Consider it payback for attempting to drug me and all the other things you make me do for you."

He stuck his tongue out at me (ever the child), but then I watched his facial expression soften a little. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you, John? Or make you feel uncomfortable with the kissing and the touching?"

I sat up and looked at him. "I'm not going to say it wasn't a little odd having my male flatmate and best friend kiss me within an inch of my life and then throw me to the floor and bruise me up a little bit. But I'm fine, Sherlock, really. Thank you for asking. Did you get the answers you needed?"

He nodded and held up his phone. "I've already texted Lestrade. The fact that the man was struggling for oxygen prior to being strangled confirmed my suspicion about the shallow bruising around his trachea. Normally, that kind of light pressure wouldn't have been enough to kill, but since he was already lightheaded due to the amorous activities, it took significantly less pressure."

"So you were right then," I said. "Right about the secretary, I mean."

He sniffed in agreement. "If everyone would have just taken my word from the beginning, we could have wrapped this up days ago."

"That's brilliant, you cheeky sod," I muttered.

He nodded and then checked his watch. "Dinner at Angelo's maybe? I'll buy."

I smiled and patted his knee. "Damn right, you'll buy."

He rolled his eyes and we gathered out things to go out. As we were heading out the door, Sherlock stopped in the stairwell and flashed an absolutely wicked smile at me.

"Still not gay then?" he asked.

I laughed out loud and swatted him on the back of the head. "Still not gay." As we headed out the door, a thought struck me. "Although…just as a point of curiosity, where in the hell did you learn to kiss like that?"


	4. Algae Everywhere

**So for this chapter, we're going to play a little game called 'who can spot the other geek references?' The winner will be given a signed copy of Martin Freeman. **

**On another note, I've been informed that I cannot give away Martin Freeman. **

**Boo. **

**Enjoy anyway! And seriously, see if you can spot the references to other geek cultures.**

* * *

4: Algae Everywhere

**Told from John's POV**

I exhaled deeply to try and calm my rage as I forced a smile and opened the exam room door for the odious Mrs. Wallenstein. The infuriating woman hopped off the exam table, stuck her nose in the air, and sauntered out of the room.

"Thank you for dropping by, Mrs. Wallenstein," I said with false cheer.

She turned on a heel and looked back at me. "I don't find you to be very amusing at all, Doctor Watson." And with that, she turned back on her heel and flipped her pashmina scarf around her neck and disappeared around the corner.

I sighed and banged my head lightly against the door before I slipped away into my office. I sat down and typed a few things into Mrs. Wallenstein's electronic chart. I thought about leaving a comment that the woman was an insidious beast, but then I heard my mobile buzz loudly in my desk drawer. I pulled it out and called up the several missed text messages I'd received, all from Sherlock. I flipped through to the oldest messages first.

_10:43_

_Going to meet informant at Rum Runners on the docks.__SH_

Well that was decent of him. Normally he would just run off to take an impromptu case or meet an informant or other Sherlockian things and leave me to wonder where he'd gotten off too. Very rarely did he inform me of where he was going.

_11:27_

_John, come at once if convenient. SH_

_11:29_

_If inconvenient, come all the same. SH_

I frowned. Sherlock must have forgotten that I had a shift at the clinic today, not that he ever remembered anyway. It was a thrice-a-week ritual that I'd come home from work and find him in the living room or the kitchen talking away at me without me even being there. This was usually followed by a chastising remark along the lines of 'Where have you been?' or 'What took you so long?' And then we'd chase after a murderer or a jewel thief or other such nonsense.

I felt a pang of uncertainty in my gut as I reread the messages. They'd become something of a private joke between the two of us…it was Sherlock's way of saying get your arse here now, I need you. It made me feel wanted and useful, which also made me glow with pride and satisfaction. It was nice to be needed by the man who needs no one. If he had needed me… was he in trouble then? I decided to flip through the rest of the messages before coming to erroneous conclusions.

_12:04_

_John, there's algae everywhere. _

_12:05_

_It keeps looking at me._

_12:10_

_I find myself in need of a nine iron and a plate of shellfish. _

_12:17_

_John, do come home. I believe I've been drugged. And I fell in the river. _

_12:18_

_We've also got salamanders in our cupboards, I can hear them. _

I stared at the messages and found myself caught between the seriousness of the implication (Sherlock had a very high tolerance to drugs, so I don't want to imagine what he'd taken that was affecting him like this… or how much) and the hilarity of the message content. The algae was looking at him? I didn't want to think about what he'd do with a nine iron and a plate of shellfish, because I knew the results would not be pretty.

Thankfully, my shift had ended after Mrs. Wallenstein's disastrous visit and I was free to go home. I put on my coat and hurried out of the clinic, catching the first cab back to Baker Street. I tried texting Sherlock to see if he was alright.

_12:45_

_I'm on my way home, Sherlock, are you okay? _

_12:46_

_I have determined that the quantum state of petunias is in direct proportion to the density of a sperm whale. _

_12:47_

_What the hell are you on about?_

_12:48_

_Stop talking… the salamanders will hear you. They're plotting a coup. Tell Mycroft at once. _

_12:49_

_Sherlock, there are no salamanders. Are you injured?_

_12:50_

_Do hurry, John…the algae won't stop staring at me. It's got too many eyes. _

_12:51_

_I'm coming, Sherlock, just hold tight. Don't wander off just stay in the flat._

_12:52_

_Easy for you to say. There isn't a giant hornet trying to fly in your window. _

I shook my head in exasperation and paid the cabbie quickly as he pulled up to Baker Street. I unlocked the door as quickly as I could and dashed up the stairs to our flat, calling Sherlock's name as I went.

"Sherlock!" I called as I threw open the door to the flat. "Sher—oh… oh Sherlock…"

The man in question was lying spread-eagled on the floor, still in his overcoat and scarf. He was soaking wet and covered with strings of dark green algae. I could see a dark crimson streak of blood on his pale neck and his eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock, what happened to you?!" I cried, running over to his side and dropping to my knees. My doctor-sense kicked in and I began to check him over for broken bones and gunshot wounds and the like, but finding nothing other than the thin gash on his neck. I poked at a few strands of the algae, which caused him to turn his attention to me.

"Oh good, you're home, John," he said with a very un-Sherlock grin on his face. "I was just going to send you a telegraph. We're out of fish fingers…and custard, and I find myself craving them rather badly. Also, I believe Mrs. Hudson has been replaced with a shape-shifter. She's got a device that rearranges her bone structure. She could look like anyone now."

"Is that so?" I asked. When he nodded vigorously, I patted his shoulder and asked, "Sherlock, do you know what they gave you?"

"Milk," he whispered. "It was blue. The milk was blue, John. It tasted like snozzberries."

"No, Sherlock…what? Snozzberries? God, what kind of drug did they give you? Was it intravenous or did you drink it or eat it? What did you take?"

He gave a keening wail and rolled over on his side, scrunching himself into a little ball. "I don't know, John!" he cried. "But it stings and I can't get the algae to stop looking at me!"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," I soothed. "But we should probably take you to the hospital so—'''

"No!" he yelled, sitting upright. "No hospitals. They'll take my brain…put it in a jar. They'll take it from me John, take it from me and squish it. Please don't let them squish my brain. No hospitals, John."

I stared at him. I didn't know what kind of drug they'd given him (it was at least moderately hallucinogenic because he was seeing things and hearing things) but it was honestly starting to alarm me. "No one's going to take your brain, Sherlock, I promise." He blew out a breath and nodded.

I stood up. "Sherlock, we should at least get you in for a shower. You're freezing and you've got algae all over you." I offered him my hand, and he took it. I pulled him to his feet and he wobbled uncertainly. I steadied him with an arm around his waist and one of his arms thrown over my shoulder. We started off unsteadily towards the loo while he kept babbling. There was a lot of talk about the salamanders in our cupboards and how they were planning on pulling a spaceship out of a swamp and using it to fly off to Alpha Centauri B. I was again torn between the wariness of his reaction to the drug and the hilarity of it.

I dragged Sherlock into the loo and got him seated on the toilet while I started up the water and switched the shower on. Now came the awkward part.

"Sherlock," I said, bending down to look him in the eyes. "I'm going to help you take your clothes off, alright? You need to get in the shower and get clean."

Sherlock giggled in a very un-Sherlock manner and shucked out of his coat. He fixed me with a pointed stare. "You're embarrassed."

"This would be the time you slip into lucidity," I grumbled. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm embarrassed. I am going to help my male flatmate take off his clothes and help him into the shower."

"But you're not gay," he stated. "So don't worry about it. I just… I just need your help because I'm a little drugged, that's all."

I chuckled. "Sherlock, right now you think there are mutinous salamanders in our cupboards looking to escape Earth on a spaceship. You're more than a little drugged. And no, I'm not gay."

Together, we managed to get Sherlock's wet and algae-covered clothing off. He started to take his pants off, but I stopped him, trying to preserve a little of his decency (and my need for decorum). I took a few moments to strip off my jumper and undershirt, knowing full well that I'd probably be soaked by the time this was over. I gripped Sherlock by the forearm and helped him into the shower, holding on to his arms as he ducked under the spray of warm water. I tried letting go of him, but as soon as I did he seemed to lose control over his musculature, so I stood awkwardly outside the half-open shower, holding on to my best friend's waist as he fumbled with the shampoo.

"John," he muttered. "I cannot open this bottle."

I sighed and held out a hand. "Give it here." I let go of him to open the bottle and he steadied himself by placing his wet hand on my shoulder. I grimaced as he unknowingly sunk into my scar and bit back my curses as I popped open the top of the bottle.

"There," I said, holding it out. He took the bottle and inhaled deeply.

"Why does my hydrochloric acid smell like apples?" he asked in a bewildered tone.

"It's not hydrochloric acid," I said. "It's shampoo. I don't know why it smells like apples, you bought it."

"Apples are rubbish," he muttered.

At that precise moment, I heard Mrs. Hudson's 'yoohoo!' echo from the living room. Damn it all to hell! I couldn't just ignore her, she'd surely heard me calling Sherlock's name as I came up the stairs and now she no doubt heard the shower going as well. I exhaled deeply and gathered what was left of my pride.

"In here, Mrs. Hudson!" I called out.

"John!" Sherlock hissed. "Mrs. Hudson is a shape-shifter. Send her away otherwise she'll steal our bodies."

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is not a shape-shifter. Now shut up and don't do anything—'''

I was interrupted by Sherlock pouring a handful of shampoo into his hand and dragging the thick liquid across my half-dry chest. It was at that moment Mrs. Hudson joined us. She squealed in surprise.

"My word!" she exclaimed. "What on earth are you two doing?" She seemed to re-examine our positions (Sherlock standing under the shower in his underwear and me only half-dressed and half in the shower myself, holding on to his hips so he would not fall down) for a moment before a playful smirk crossed her face. I knew that look.

"No, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "It's not what it looks like. We're not…it's not…ah…We are not together. I am not gay. We've just had a slight…shampoo malfunction, everything's fine…we're all fine…it's okay…now. How are you?"

"It's alright, dear," she said. "There are all sorts in the world."

I exhaled deeply again and chose to ignore it. "Look, Sherlock's gone and gotten himself drugged while out on casework today. He was covered in algae and dripping wet." I pointed to the mildewing pile of Sherlock's clothing. Mrs. Hudson nudged them with her shoe and came up with a drying string of algae. Her eyes widened.

"He's a little loopy," I explained. "And he's having trouble staying upright, so as _his doctor_," I emphasised, "I am helping him to get clean and warm and not pass out and crack his head open."

"Oh poor dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed as she peeked around the curtain to where Sherlock was standing. He flashed a sleepy grin at her and waved with one hand, the other one massaging massive amounts of shampoo into his hair.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said seriously, "we've got salamanders in the cupboards. Also, do you know where I might find a bowl of purple petunias? I need them for an experiment. But don't tell Mrs. Hudson, she'll only change her shape."

"Oh my word, John, he's gone round the bend, hasn't he?" Mrs. Hudson asked gently. "What can I do to help?" she asked.

"Umm…" I looked around and thought. I nodded at the pile of clothes. "Do you think you could wash those clothes before they mildew?"

She grabbed one of the extra towels and gathered the wet things into it. "Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper." She smiled and walked out of the room.

"Maybe put the kettle on, if you would," I called after her, hearing her customary response follow shortly. I turned to face the sopping man in the shower. He leaned closer to me and put his lips against my ear.

"She thinks we're together," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Is that what she thinks?" I asked, chuckling under my breath. I nudged him back under the water. "I guess it's a good thing I'm not actually gay then."

Sherlock giggled again. "Keep telling yourself that, John. Someday it might actually be true."

"Git," I muttered. But he didn't hear and instead chose to launch into a further explanation of how the quantum state of a bowl of petunias was directly proportional to the density of a sperm whale.

It was—as his rants usually are—rather educational.


	5. Ruse

**Greetings, fellow earth-beings. :) I apologise for the wait time for the last two chapters. I had to go to battle with the enemy known only as Real Life and it kept me away for longer than I wanted (I had to rescue my muse from a tree, poor thing...). Anyway, I chased the demon back to its shadowy cave and hammered out these last two chapters for you. **

**Enjoy. :)**

* * *

5: Ruse

**Told from Sherlock's POV**

"John, I need you to be my boyfriend."

I watched John spit out his tea and proceed to choke and gasp for air, thumping himself on his chest with a flat hand.

"What?" he gasped.

I fixed him with a look, knowing full well he'd heard what I had said. Although, it was possible that he didn't comprehend exactly what I'd meant when I said it. People understood, but so rarely did they comprehend.

"John, I need you to be my boyfriend," I repeated, this time speaking a little more slowly and with a little more volume.

He rolled his eyes and then fixed me with a frown. "Thank you, Sherlock. I'm not deaf yet, you know."

"Hearing loss is nothing to be ashamed of, John," I said. "In face, studies suggest that as we age, our hearing threshold decreases—'''

"That's all well and good," he interrupted, "but I'm not old, either. Not old enough to worry about permanent hearing loss that isn't affiliated with being in a war zone, anyway." He fixed me with another pointed stare. "Now, you were saying…"

"John, you know how much I hate to repeat myself," I muttered. "Especially for the third time."

"Indulge me," he said with a sickly sweet smile.

"I require you to become my boyfriend, John," I said for the third time, trying very hard to be civil. If he refused my request….well, I suppose this required a little more finesse than I had originally thought. Hmm.

He folded his hands by his mouth and stared at me with round eyes, his pearly-blue irises attempting to dig into my own eyes. This went on for approximately two solid minutes before he moved again.

"Right, so….there are two words in that statement that are tripping me up," he said. "Those two words would be _require_ and _boyfriend_, because one, I don't think a boyfriend is something people usually…require. And two… I'm not gay. And you know that. You yourself have proclaimed that you are married to your work. So why are you insisting that you want me to be your boyfriend now?"

Oh…poor John. John is a lot brighter than a lot of people I know… and a lot brighter than your average Englishman roaming the streets of London, but sometimes his failure to deduce even the simplest of things… It led to circumstances like this. I kneaded the bridge of my nose with two fingers and exhaled deeply.

"John," I said, "I need you to be my boyfriend for a case."

He stared at me again. "What?"

I could feel the beginnings of a migraine lingering behind my eyeballs. "John, there's a case," I explained slowly. "There have been some serial abductions taking place in the Silver Orchid Motel in Chichester over the past three weeks, and all of the victims were involved in homosexual relationships. The couple travels to the hotel, and then one half of the pair disappears within 12 to 24 hours. The detective inspector in Chichester finally decided to call Lestrade and ask for us."

"Jesus," John breathed. "Only one half of the pair, you say?"

I nodded. "Isn't it fascinating? In all the cases—four of them so far—each couple has gone to bed a pair and woken up without the other half. Whatever happens goes down in the night without a single sound. All of the other halves of the couples never hear a thing." I could feel the excitement beginning to build in my limbs and in my brain. Four abductions and all of them snatched from their beds without their partners ever hearing a single thing? Oh it was like Christmas!

"So let me get this straight," John said. "You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend so that we can go to Chichester and I presume check in to this hotel and then allow one of us to be abducted and probably killed."

"Yes," I said. Why was he looking at me like… oh. "Except for the getting killed part, of course," I amended. "I do intend to solve it before either of us is abducted, or anyone else for that matter. Besides, there's no evidence to suggest that these people are being killed once they've been taken. No bodies have turned up anywhere."

"Yes, well, if you were a serial kidnapper and killer, would you put the bodies somewhere they could be found if you could avoid it?" he asked.

I folded my hands in thought. It was an intriguing question, after all. I was no serial killer, but I'd done a lot of research on them and written a few treatises on the psychological and sociological aspects of serial killers.

"Actually, John, it is a phenomenon amongst most major psychopathic serial murderers that they receive acknowledgement of their deeds. Most of the serial killers I've studied consider themselves to be superior to their victims, a complex which leads most of them to boast about their dominance and authority over their victims. They seek recognition for their actions. So I guess… if I were actually a serial kidnapper and killer, I would probably leave the bodies of my victims in a place where they could be found so that I might receive my credit."

John was gaping at me. "How in the world do you know that?"

I threw him a scandalised look. "John, I'm a high-functioning sociopath with a long history of research into the psychological and sociological aspects of modern serial killers. I don't understand how you keep forgetting that."

"Right," he muttered. He stared off into space for a moment and I could tell that he was thinking about the implications of our journey to Chichester posing as a homosexual couple. John really did have an emotive face and expressive body language. The slightest crinkle of the skin around his eyes or his lips told me things no one else would know. The clenching of his hands and the long swallow passing through his throat muscles released their secrets to me. I watched his thoughts move along his body and followed them.

"I promise, John, I will do everything in my power to solve this before either of us has a chance to be abducted." From the way he jumped, I knew I'd broken into his train of thought precisely and I couldn't hide my grin of success.

"I'll never know how you bloody do that," he muttered. He sighed deeply and looked at me. "Alright, Sherlock. I'll do this for you, but I have one condition—'''

"I promise no one at the Yard will know about this little foray, nor anyone else besides you and I. Besides, you're not actually gay, so it's not like you have anything to worry about anyway."

"I know that," he said. "But they never believe me. This would just be petrol on the fire. So let's keep it to ourselves, eh?" I nodded my consent.

"Right," he said. "I'm assuming we're headed to Chichester in the morning?"

I nodded. "We've got an 8:45 train. Our stay at the hotel has already been booked."

"Oh good," he sighed. "Right, I'm going to bed then so I can get up early and pack." He stood and began to walk towards his bedroom. I stood and followed him up the stairs. He stopped halfway up and turned around to look at me, his eyebrows arched in question.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Yes?" I replied.

"What are you doing?"

I sighed in impatience. "John, tomorrow we're heading to a motel where we must masquerade as boyfriends for the entire staff and the guests and all the people in the town. Our kidnapper will see right through us unless we… are comfortable with each other. And…in the case that I don't manage to solve the thing before nightfall, we will be sleeping in the same bed. I think it's wise to at least get these few hours of practice, don't you think?"

He stared at me before groaning slightly and puffing out his breath. Finally he threw me a tortured glare and said, "Fine. Come along then."

"That's the spirit, John!" I said, stretching up to kiss the man's cheek. I revelled in the sight of the crimson blush that spread over his face and ducked as he attempted to swat my head.

Twenty minutes later, we were both tucked into John's bed and staring at the ceiling. I knew I wouldn't sleep because I was far too busy thinking about the case, but John needed to get his rest so that he would be alert and ready for tomorrow.

"John," I said, "stop thinking and sleep."

"I'm trying," he muttered. "But that's rather hard to do when my male best friend is sleeping in my bed with me." He rolled over and faced the wall, breathing heavily through his nose.

Oh, there it was again, John's obstinate defence of his sexuality. Honestly, how could someone be so uptight about something as trivial as sexuality? The span of human sexuality was a lot broader than people realised, and it seemed so constricting to only encompass one narrow end of it. Although I am not really interested in things like romance or love, I am not totally unfamiliar with sex and sexuality, quite contrary to what people believe. I suppose that I identify myself as an asexual or perhaps even a pansexual or demisexual person…but labels have never been that important to me, especially with something as inconsequential as a person's orientation. Attraction is just a chemical reaction… why did it matter who triggered it?

But John…well, I suppose he's always been more traditional than I am…more vanilla in his tastes. He wasn't homophobic by any means, I'm sure his sister's sexual identity and his moderate mind in the 21st century took care of that…in fact I once saw him rise to the occasion to defend a new constable on Lestrade's force who was being harassed by some co-workers about his sexuality. It was very…inspiring, to say the least. But that was John Watson's style…defending and protecting the people, ever the solider and the doctor. The man had even taken up his metaphorical sword in my defence from the likes of Donovan, Anderson, and various other small minds that had sought to be irascible towards me. It was… odd and nice to have someone backing me like that. The thought sent a shot of warmth to my chest and I felt a pull of gratitude towards John Watson that I'd surely never felt for anyone…not like this, anyway.

It was with that thought that I gently rolled over on my side and tentatively placed my hand along his muscular back, moving my thumb ever-so-slightly. He tensed under the touch and I could practically feel the thumping of his heart. He exhaled shakily.

"I'm not gay, Sherlock," he murmured.

I chuckled breathily. "I know, John."

"Then what are you doing?" he whispered.

"I'm merely trying to soothe you," I whispered back. "You need the rest, you've had a long week at the clinic and now we're going to chase down a serial kidnapper. Research suggests that soothing touches like this release oxytocin and serotonin, which can ease stress and promote relaxation. Just relax, John, I'm not going to hurt you."

I felt the tension leave his muscles and I heard him whisper, "I know, Sherlock."

I hummed quietly and scooted a little closer, my hand still gently stroking his muscles through his thin tee. "Have you ever heard the story of why the bat flies at night, John?"

John turned his head back towards me ever so slightly. "No…"

I sniffed. "Would you like to hear it?"

He chuckled. "Are you offering to tell me a bedtime story, Sherlock?"

"It's a Nigerian folktale, John. For some reason I have it in my memory banks and I thought that you might enjoy hearing it as you try to sleep. Now would you like to hear the story?"

He pushed his back into my hand ever-so-slightly. "Sure," he whispered.

I lowered my voice and launched into the tale. I could feel John's breathing evening out and slowing under my fingers and by the end of the story, he was sound asleep.

It was the first night in quite a while that John didn't have any nightmares.

0000000000000000

The next morning found us packed and on a train headed to Chichester. We'd had a bit of a frantic morning, seeing as how Mrs. Hudson had walked into the flat to witness John kissing my cheek as he handed me a cup of tea (supposedly payment for the peck I'd landed on him last night, as well as a sincere thank you for the nightmare-free evening). She'd squealed and nearly gone into a fit of hysterics. John hadn't even tried to correct her, and I wondered whether it was because he was that dedicated to the act or whether he had just completely given up on that aspect of his life. His thoroughly defeated expression had been thoroughly amusing.

Things hadn't gotten better for John when we'd shown up at the train station holding hands and Lestrade had appeared to see us off. He'd noticed our clasped hands and immediately crowed in delight. John had turned twelve shades of cherry red and launched into his well-worn 'I'm not gay!' speech. I had taken a few moments to gently explain to Lestrade that no, he hadn't won the pool at the Yard, it was just a ruse for the Chichester case. Lestrade had been downtrodden, John had been vindicated.

I'd spent the train ride going over the case files with John. It seemed that the dream-free night and the embarrassment filled morning had done him wonders, for he asked all the right questions and contributed many positive suggestions to the case. I felt my heart (my heart?) swell with a little pride. If that's all it took to get John to contribute really ripping good stuff, I'd have to do it more often.

We'd made our way to the motel and checked in, all the while trading spontaneous motions that made us appear to be a couple completely engaged in one another. I'd utterly underestimated John's acting skills for this task. The man (once he got past the initial blushes and throat clearings) was brilliant. He'd held my hand, pecked me on the cheek, and even slid his arm around my waist at the reception desk. The stocky woman behind the desk had completely bought it and had beamed at us.

Unfortunately, our good luck happened to stop at everyone buying into John and I being a couple. We had spent the day scouring the motel and the surrounding areas looking for the missing halves to no avail. John had discreetly interviewed half the staff and I'd put several kilometres under my soles by the time twilight rolled in. When I finally gave up and retired to our room, John was already there, sitting on the bed in his pyjama pants and a tee, looking through all the files we'd brought with us. He looked up as I came in and tossed my coat and suit jacket on to the chair.

"No leads at all then?" he commented, looking me over with furrowed brows.

I flopped down on the part of the mattress that wasn't covered by papers or John. "Nothing," I muttered, unable to keep the frustration of defeat out of my voice and out of my brain. "It doesn't make sense, John, people just don't disappear. And they certainly don't disappear without leaving any sort of trace behind them!" I thumped the mattress below me for emphasis.

John put all the papers back in the folder and rubbed his eyes. He looked at me blearily. "Why don't you go have a shower and then we'll try to sleep."

"I couldn't possibly sleep now!" I exclaimed.

He threw me a look. "And when I say sleep, I mean pretend to sleep and we'll see if we can attract any serial kidnappers in the night." He stopped and screwed up his mouth, as if the very words tasted bad in his mouth. He threw me another look. "I've been living with you for much too long," he muttered.

I chuckled and went to the loo for a shower. Under the hot water, I mulled over the case and what new facts and data I had accumulated since my arrival. The grounds had proven to be lacking in evidence. The only sign of foot traffic in the surrounding wooded area was along the forest trail leading to a small pond. The authorities had already combed through the forest and dragged the pond, only to come up with nothing. I could find no other evidence that led me to believe they had been taken to the forest. The motel itself was an old stone structure and probably more suited to the title of 'bed and breakfast'. It was all on one level and the masonry suggested at a greater age than I first imagined, although the upkeep and restoration had been superb. But again, nothing to suggest the victims had been led outside at all. The grass and shrubbery underneath the victim's windows (one of which belonged to the room John and I were currently in) had been undisturbed and there were no signs to show that the windows had even been opened. Even the rooms themselves hadn't shown any signs. It was frustrating and intriguing.

When I was clean, dry, and dressed, I joined John again in the main room. He had abandoned all the paperwork and was lying on his back under the covers on the left side of the bed, his hands tucked under his head and a thoughtful expression on his face. I slipped in beside him and laid my head on the pillow, which I noticed had been scented lightly with lavender oil. John put his hands down and rolled over to face me. I could read in the tense lines on his face that he was anxious for the happenings that could occur in the night. I knew the danger and the adrenaline served as both his ambrosia and his paralytic in times like this.

"I'm probably going to fall asleep," he admitted, his voice thick with unexpected drowsiness. "I'm exhausted and all I did today was talk to people."

I chuckled. "It's fine, John. I shall wake you if anything…interesting occurs."

He hummed his agreement and had fallen into a light sleep within 10 minutes. I lay back and tried to focus my attention to the dark room. It was silent and still and from somewhere outside the window I heard the soft chirp of crickets and the peeper frogs from the pond. The heady scent of the lavender from my pillow filled my head, fogging it. I tried to swipe away at it. I needed to focus, John was counting on me.

Need…to stay…awake…

John…

* * *

**Should have warned you that I threw a real plot into the mix here, just to shake things up... don't worry, it all gets resolved, so just go ahead and click that button...there you go. :)**


	6. And One Time

6: And One Time…

When Sherlock awoke, his head was fuzzy and his tongue felt thick and furry. He blinked steadily and tried to inhale deeply, shaking off the effects of his slumber. The pale morning sun was shining through the window. Sherlock turned and read the clock beside the bed. 6:38. He rubbed his eyes and stretched languorously, feeling his muscles pop and pull. In the back of his mind, Sherlock was mildly irritated that he'd fallen asleep. There was a reason he needed to be awake all night, but he couldn't seem to put his finger on it. Maybe John would know—

John!

Sherlock sat bolt upright and threw a hand out to the space beside him in the bed, feeling for John's warm figure.

It was not to be found.

00000000000

When John awoke, his head was fuzzy and his tongue felt thick and furry. He blinked his eyes a couple of times and tried to adjust the blurry shapes in his vision. John was vaguely aware that he was freezing and something was clamped around his middle, securing his arms to his sides. _Ugh_, he thought. _Sherlock's stolen the covers again, bloody menace. And, for someone who doesn't like touching he's sure got the grip of a giant squid…wait, that's not Sherlock's arm_—

Sherlock!

John's vision came into focus with the flood of adrenaline in his bloodstream. He looked down and found himself strapped to an inclined table with a series of thick leather straps. John struggled against the straps, but they had been cinched so tightly that the struggle only created uncomfortable friction. Looking around, he saw that he was in a stone chamber lit with archaic lanterns and torches in the wall sconces. If he turned his head to the right, he saw a long table pressed against the wall, its surfaces covered with objects that glinted in the dull yellow light. If he turned his head to the left he saw… a cage. A cell was set back into the wall on his left, the ugly iron bars thick and a dull grey in colour. John thought he could see indistinct lumps within the cell that were vaguely human shaped. He knew they had to be the missing people that they'd been searching for.

"Hey," John called, his voice whispery and weak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey! Anybody awake over there?"

It took several more minutes of calling before John heard scraping and scuffling from the direction of the cell. In the flickering light of the torches, John watched as two faces appeared behind the iron bars, one male and one female. John recognised them as two of the people that had been taken.

"Bad luck for you then, mate," the man said with a melancholy voice. His pale face was covered in grime and scruff and blood, as were the hands that gripped the bars in front of him. His eyes were bright with fever and sweat dotted his brow.

"It's okay," John found himself saying. "I know who you are and I'm here to help you."

The woman giggled with a bite of hysteria. "You don't look to be in a position to be doing much helping, if you don't mind my sayin'."

"My name's John Watson," John said. "I know your name is Allison, your partner is Catherine. You have a daughter named Iris and you live in Brighton." The woman choked on a sob and tears shone in her eyes. John turned his attention to the man. "I know your name is Leland and your husband is Nathan. You've got two kids and you came down to Chichester from London for your anniversary." Leland bowed his head and pressed it against the bars.

"I came here with Sherlock Holmes," John said. Leland's head snapped up in shock and even Allison's eyes widened. "We came to find you and we're going to get you out. Are Kate and Malcolm in there with you?"

Leland and Allison exchanged glances. "Malcolm is sleeping," Allison said, "but Kate… she passed out a few hours ago and we can't wake her up."

John's heart dropped. "Does she still have a pulse?"

Leland nodded. "It's irregular, but it's there. She's breathing too, but it's slow."

John let his head thump back against the table. Kate had been taken first, so she'd been down here for a few weeks. She was probably severely dehydrated and malnourished. She might have gotten an infection or some other kind of illness sitting in this cold, slightly damp place for weeks on end. John closed his eyes and silently willed Sherlock to find them and find them soon.

"Okay," John said. "Just keep checking on her, please." Allison nodded and a silence fell over the chamber. John caught sight of all the glinting objects to his right and swallowed thickly.

"What have they been doing to you?" he asked.

There was another silence before Leland answered. "She tortures us, Dr. Watson. We've been beaten and sliced… Kate was branded and Malcolm had a tooth removed. I've broken some ribs and some fingers and Allison…" Leland cut off and looked at her, his eyes full of pain and questions. The dead gaze that Allison fixed on John told him exactly what had been done to her and the shiver running down his spine had nothing to do with the temperature.

Allison spoke then. "We haven't eaten properly in days and she only brings us water twice a day. Not that we know days anymore, or nights…or time in general." Allison's head drooped and Leland shuffled over to put an arm around her.

"How are we going to get out of here, Dr. Watson?" Leland asked. For the first time since his imprisonment, Leland felt a glimmer of hope. As Londoners, he and Nathan followed the doctor's blog about the exploits of the great detective and all of his brilliant cases. If there was ever a team to get them out of this place, it would be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

John sighed as he contemplated Leland's question. "I don't know exactly," he admitted. "But Sherlock is here and he'll find us." He wanted to add _especially since I'm here with you now_, but John didn't want to downplay what they'd undergone in the past few weeks.

A new voice intruded on his thoughts. "I wouldn't be too sure of that, Dr. Watson." John focused his attention to the right side of the room, where the voice was coming from. Allison and Leland whimpered and retreated to the dark corners of their cell. John watched as a shadow moved forward.

A tall woman with her dark hair in a long braid walked up to the table. She was wearing dark clothing and a red leather jacket, which she removed and threw off to the side. John thought she looked vaguely familiar…he studied her facial features and her physique to see if he could place her.

"Having trouble remembering where you've seen me?" she asked with a thin smile on her face. She barked a laugh and then removed a pair of thick framed glasses from her pocket. She put them on and hunched her shoulders and whispered "housekeeping" in a thin, tremulous voice. Ah…of course… she was the mousy member of the housekeeping staff that had broken into tears when John had attempted to interview her yesterday.

She guffawed loudly as the recognition set on John's face, taking off the glasses and putting them back in her jacket. She strode back to the table and fixed John with a grin of superiority.

"It's amazing what you can do with just a pair of glasses and the right shift in attitude," she mused. "I knew you dismissed me as soon as I started crying for you." She laughed and it sent chills up John's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The woman picked up a long wooden staff from the table and walked up to John and traced the object over his face and neck. John tried to pull away from the touch but when he did, she used the end of the staff to force his face back. She jammed the end of the stick into his cheek and came close enough to lean over and whisper in his ear.

"Let's have some fun," she whispered. John was only aware of a whooshing sound before pain erupted from his abdomen as she swung the thick staff down along his ribs. He yelled and tried again to struggle against the leather restraints. She struck him a few more times along his torso and arms, leaving welts and deep red marks that would bruise fantastically. The woman smirked as she lined up the staff to take a crack at the side of his face, when a baritone voice broke from the shadows and made John's heart leap.

"I would not advise that," Sherlock Holmes said. The woman's eyes widened and she spun around.

"How did you find this place?" she hissed angrily.

He smirked at her and merely said, "Elementary, my dear. It was the lavender that gave your secret away."

"Impossible," she spat, assuming a defensive pose in front of the table, the thick staff held aloft in her hands like a broadsword.

"Not impossible, I assure you," Sherlock cooed. "Merely improbable. But I do have to commend you on your methods. They are most… unique and rather ingenious."

John rolled his eyes. "Not the time, Sherlock!"

"I didn't say I approved of them, John," Sherlock said, frowning at the doctor.

"But only you could make a comment like that at a time like this!" John hissed.

"John, everything is under control—'''

"Oh yeah," John muttered sarcastically. "Everything's just peachy from here, thanks."

"You're being ridiculous, John."

"Ridiculous? I'm tethered to a bloody table and she was beating me!"

"Well, she stopped now. Calm down."

"Calm do—oh Sherlock, you are bloody impossible, you know that?"

"Oi!" the woman yelled. She was looking back and forth between the two men. "You two fight like an old married couple."

"We're not a couple," John muttered out of reflex.

The woman snorted. "Riiiiiiight."

Sherlock sniffed. "Arabella Matheson, I suggest you surrender yourself now, seeing as how a police force will be here in approximately three minutes to execute your arrest."

The woman snorted and shifted her staff in her hands. "I don't think so," she intoned. She struck the staff to a stone in the ground, and both John and Sherlock were distracted as a loud rumble echoed through the space. John's attention was drawn upward as chunks of rock and dirt fell down upon him and his table began to slowly tilt backwards. When he was inverted and lying on his back, he immediately saw the source of the sound.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "The ceiling…"

The ceiling above John's head was slowly descending. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't really the ceiling at all, but instead a large chunk of sandstone that was inching closer and closer to John's table.

Arabella took off and ran to the hallway situated behind the table and to John's horror, Sherlock sprinted after her.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "Sherlock, come back here, the ceiling… this thing is going to crush me! Sherlock!"

Time seemed to slow as John watched the slab creep ever closer to him, the quiet, squeaky hum of hydraulics echoing around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Allison and Leland and Malcolm watching in abject terror.

When the slab was about a metre away from his body and John had offered up his last silent prayers to whoever was listening, he felt a rush of air by his side and looked over to see Sherlock working frantically at the restraints with trembling hands.

"Sherlock, where were you?" John said.

"I was out for a walk, John," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "I was chasing the woman, where do you think I was?! Just shut up and hold on." The stone rumbled closer.

"If you wouldn't have chased after her, I wouldn't be in this predicament!" John cried.

Sherlock glared at him. "Do you really want to argue about this right now?"

The restraints around John's legs and hips were loose, but the binding around his chest and arms was still in place.

"Sherlock, hurry," John breathed.

Sherlock exhaled sharply and worked feverishly. The stone moved closer still, the hum of the hydraulics never stalling.

Just as the slab began to brush against the tips of John's toes, the restraints loosened and Sherlock pulled John off of the table, gathering him close to his own body and rolling away from the table, upon which the stone now sat.

John was vaguely aware that policemen had filed into the room and were going about with their guns and torches held aloft. He was also aware of the warm form of Sherlock Holmes on top of him, shouting orders to the policemen. The man's planed face swam into focus and John saw worry in the pale blue eyes.

"Get off me," John mumbled, feeling the twinge of his bruises. "People will talk."

Sherlock chuckled in reply and heaved himself off. John lay there for several more minutes, watching as Sherlock went to talk to Detective Inspector Hayworth. John saw the four abductees being escorted from their cell and out the stone hallway, Kate being borne out on a stretcher. It was over… they'd won. John sat up and looked around the chamber. It looked like something straight out of a medieval horror movie.

Sherlock's voice broke into his mind. "We'd been drugged. Ms. Matheson was a member of the housekeeping staff. They put satchels of lavender in the pillowcases and she took the opportunity to lace a few of them with a sleep-inducing narcotic that knocked out both partners. The partners didn't notice they'd been drugged because it felt just like falling asleep. I noticed, however, because I do not sleep as often as the average human. I noticed that the lavender was making me nod off but it took me under before I could get away."

John saw irritation, disappointment, and guilt cross Sherlock's angled face. He stood on wobbly legs and joined the detective inspector and the consulting detective, grasping for Sherlock's arm so he could steady himself.

"So how'd she get them down here?" the inspector was asking.

Sherlock smiled as he offered John a shoulder to lean on, which John accepted woozily, feeling Sherlock's arm wrap around his waist protectively. "That was the rather ingenious part. Have you ever heard the tale of Sweeney Todd?"

"The demon barber of Fleet Street?" John supplied. The inspector nodded in agreement.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "According to legend, Todd slit the throats of men coming to his barbershop and then dumped their bodies down through a trapdoor in the floor of his shop. When I woke to find you missing, John, I quickly set to work examining our room. The window had not been budged at all, so I knew you couldn't have been taken through there. Likewise, the door was still bolted and there were no marks on the carpet to suggest that you had been dragged away. Now, you couldn't have just vanished, so I re-examined every inch of the room. When I was checking out the frame under our bed, I stumbled upon a hidden switch. When depressed, a trapdoor behind the bedframe opened up. It would have been absurdly simple for her to slide a person into the trapdoor and down the slide. After alerting DI Hayworth here, I came down the slide myself and set to rescue you, John, and find the other abductees." He finished with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Brilliant," Hayworth muttered under his breath as he scribbled notes in his book. Sherlock grinned down at John, who elbowed the taller man in the ribs.

"What about the woman?" John asked.

"I tackled her in the hallway," Sherlock said dismissively. "She clocked me with that staff," he said, rubbing his head gingerly. "But I subdued her and she's in custody." Detective Inspector Hayworth nodded in agreement and a short silence fell.

John punched Sherlock's arm. "What took you so long?" he yelled. The detective inspector chuckled.

Sherlock sniffed. "Really, John, can't you just say thank you?"

John grabbed Sherlock's coat lapels and brought him down to kiss him soundly on the lips. Sherlock squirmed a little but as John's lips moved gently but ardently over his, he gave up and kissed him back.

When they broke apart at the DI's embarrassed cough, Sherlock's face was tinged with pink and his breathing was heavy.

"Thank you," John whispered. He let go of Sherlock and began to limp off in order to find the four abductees and check on them, as well as find some medical attention for himself.

"So you two are together then?" John heard the DI say.

"Still not gay!" John tossed back over his shoulder. He could hear Sherlock's baritone chuckles echoing in the hallway and he allowed a small smile to slowly cross his face.

* * *

**Well... :) There you have it. I certainly hope you found it to be an enjoyable story well worth your time. If you took the time to favourite or follow it (or at least check for it...), thank you so much. Your patience and kindness are the balm to all that ails me. If you left reviews for me, I really cannot find words that can adequately express my gratitude towards you. *bows* You are simply wonderful. :) **

**If you like what I do, check out my other works and keep your eyes peeled for new stuff that should be coming down the pipeline in just a few days. If you do happen to like what I do... well... thanks. :) I send you all warm thoughts, jam, and eyeballs to experiment on. **

**Be safe in your travels! Until next time...**


End file.
